


A Golden Moment

by QueenNeehola



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, No Spoilers, Post-Canon, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27975468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenNeehola/pseuds/QueenNeehola
Summary: Therion's face and hair and eyes all seem to shine brighter than simple moonlight should allow, glowing with celestial beauty where the pallid light should surely wash him out.  His evergreen eyes flicker with minute movements, and when Cyrus stands behind him he sees what he’s looking at and understands the added luminosity coming in the window.It’s snowing.
Relationships: Cyrus Albright/Therion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	A Golden Moment

**Author's Note:**

> i woke up in the middle of the night and it was snowing and instead of going back to sleep i proceeded to lay awake for an hour and a half and concoct this entire fic in my head and then the next day i went feral and typed the whole thing in one sitting
> 
> anyway enjoy some plotless and messy warm and fuzzy winter cytheri :)

Cyrus wakes slowly. He is aware that the room is dark even by midwinter’s standards, and that his limbs are slow and reluctant to move, and surmises it must still be some small hour.

He is also aware that there is no lump curled tight and breathing slowly against his chest and it’s that, more than anything else, that brings him to full consciousness.

Therion is gone. His side of the bed is crumpled with recent movement, the duvet haphazardly tucked back around Cyrus showing no signs of his imminent return.

Cyrus sits up. The chill assails him at once, prodding insistently even through his winter pyjamas. The room is not much brighter even with his eyes open, and the little light is concentrated in a single line from the window; a sprawling rectangle of moonlight spills along one side of the room and onto the opposite wall, interrupted only by a small dark shape.

Cyrus smiles. Therion hasn’t gone far after all.

Even the carpet is cold against Cyrus’s feet as he shuffles across to where Therion perches in the deep windowsill, staving off the chill between the folds of Cyrus’s academy coat.

He doesn’t hear Cyrus approaching, or if he does he makes no acknowledgement, and simply continues staring out into the silent Atlasdam streets. His face and hair and eyes all seem to shine brighter than simple moonlight should allow, glowing with celestial beauty where the pallid light should surely wash him out. His evergreen eyes flicker with minute movements, and when Cyrus stands behind him he sees what he’s looking at and understands the added luminosity coming in the window.

It’s snowing.

Snowy winters aren’t an oddity in Atlasdam - the Flatlands and Frostlands are neighbours after all - but the solstice celebration is still weeks away, and already a thicker blanket of snow than Cyrus recalls ever seeing has draped itself across the buildings opposite, settling like rows of decorative icing on their roofs. The road is covered too, and at this hour undisturbed by the harsh lines of carriage tracks. Plump flakes continue to fall. There is no sound.

It’s beautiful.

So is Therion, encased in that same colourless radiance.

He doesn’t flinch as Cyrus’s hands stroke up his arms to rest on his shoulders. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“You’ll be disappointed,” Therion says. His voice, usually so dry and crisp, seems newly hushed and reverent, like he too has been lulled by the snowfall.

“Doubtful.” Cyrus smiles and slides his hands forwards, down along the ridges of Therion’s collarbones to rest against his chest. He leans to press a warm kiss against the shell of Therion’s ear, then fits himself into the sill beside Therion.

This is one of Therion’s favourite places to sit. Cyrus can’t count the number of times he’s found him curled up here with his nose in one of the books he claims to have no interest in, or nesting with a bundle of stolen cushions as the afternoon sun paints patterns across his sleeping face.

Cyrus has always liked to watch Therion. He has always liked to watch people in general - humans are fascinating, illogical, unique creatures of habit and quirks and emotion and to observe that is a special sort of knowledge, too - but Therion quickly became his favourite subject, even before they began this relationship.

Cyrus has seen him in firelight, the flickering oranges granting him a sharpness to his face, a dangerous mystique, the scar across his eye glowing like a new brand when he pushes his hair back. By lamplight, where he seems to vanish into shadows like he is one himself, utterly silent, there one minute and gone the next. Under the Coastlands sun, plain and human and beautiful. In sheer darkness, where Cyrus sees with his hands, and Therion lets himself be seen.

Like this, though - all his bright and distinct edges turned lambent and hazy, the black of Cyrus’s coat a striking and gorgeous contrast against his shining spun silk hair - it’s different again. It almost feels like Cyrus has stumbled upon a secret, this ethereal midnight Therion almost a new creature entirely under the moon’s glow. Words like _saintly_ and _angelic_ aren’t suited to Therion, and it would almost certainly be blasphemous to liken him to godliness, but Cyrus can’t help but feel like he’s looking upon something holy.

“I didn’t take you as someone who likes snow,” he says. “You’ve never seemed a fan of the cold.”

“I’m not,” Therion says. His voice is so heavy with disgust that all thoughts of piety and awe are banished at once, and Cyrus laughs. “I just woke up, and it was snowing. I just felt like watching it for a bit. It’s quiet. Good for thinking. ...Pretty.”

Cyrus doesn’t ask what he was thinking about. He isn’t so foolish as to assume he will ever know all of Therion’s secrets, but he isn’t foolish enough to discount the possibility completely, either. Therion gives slowly and in little pieces, and Cyrus treasures every single one.

“It certainly is,” he agrees. Therion’s eyes flick to him, and it’s obvious he was never looking at the snow in how Therion’s lips curl into a reluctant, fond smile.

“Sap.”

Therion shifts, his sleeve rides up, and the glint on his finger catches Cyrus’s eye and his breath all at once.

He had thought the engagement band might be a bad idea, might weigh as heavy on Therion as the fool’s bangle had, might ruin the quiet and comfortable balance they had come to appreciate. But Therion had slid it onto his finger with ease and there it remains. 

It suits him. 

Cyrus had in truth wanted to buy him something more flashy, more deserving, but the more he thinks on the plain silver the more he thinks it perfect. Unassumingly beautiful, and unexpectedly his. His matching band is just another little piece of Therion to cherish.

Therion, as always seems to happen, finds his way closer to Cyrus until they are little more than a warm and welcome tangle of limbs and fingers and fabric. It should be uncomfortable but it never is, and Cyrus still doesn’t know how Therion manages it. He almost seems not to move at all; a metre away one minute, a foot the next, then an inch, then no distance at all, tucked secure under Cyrus’s chin and between his arms.

Cyrus presses a kiss to the top of Therion’s head. He can feel the drowsiness returning in both of them; lethargy setting into Therion’s bones and pulling him heavier against Cyrus; the tugging droop of his own eyelids trying to hide the snowscape they have both taken to watching in silence.

They shouldn’t fall asleep here, but he doesn’t want to move. Therion won’t want to either, and he’s remarkably persuasive without saying anything, his hand finding Cyrus’s and slotting their chilly fingers together.

“Therion,” Cyrus says anyway, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “We should go back to bed.”

“Hnf,” Therion says. Cyrus translates it as a no.

He smiles, noses into Therion’s cheek. “Then how about some tea, at least, to keep us warm.”

“S’too late for tea.”

“On the contrary, I’d say the hour is rather early.” Therion wriggles and doesn’t quite manage to elbow him. “Cocoa, then?”

That earns him a more approving sound, but Therion remains stubbornly attached.

“Might I persuade you to let me go to the kitchen, then?” Cyrus asks. “I will try to be quick.”

“Hnf,” goes Therion again, but his grip does loosen and he half-turns in Cyrus’s arms. This one seems to mean “kiss first,” and Cyrus obliges.

When he returns, warmth radiating through his hands from the two gently steaming mugs of cocoa, Therion is curled small and tight in one corner of the window. Cyrus seems to have been replaced by the throw from their bed, the one Therion always says he hates but now seems to have made a reluctant alliance with. He holds an edge up so Cyrus can slip in beside him, and gratefully takes the hot mug, sipping at it eagerly.

Too eagerly; he hisses sharply a second later, his reddened tongue poking out into the cool air.

“It _is_ hot,” Cyrus laughs, taking his own, slower sip. It’s sweet, almost sickly, but it helps to remedy the heaviest edges of his sleepiness, and with the sugary snow still piling up outside, the cloying rich taste seems a perfect fit.

Therion is just as perfect a fit, seamlessly manoeuvring himself into the spaces Cyrus’s body isn’t filling again, and when he almost spills his own drink to twist and kiss Cyrus again, it’s softer than any snow, and warmer and sweeter than any cocoa.

**Author's Note:**

> aristotle said "to appreciate the beauty of a snowflake it is necessary to stand out in the cold" and there's definitely a metaphorical comparison to be made there
> 
> find me on twitter @QueenNeehola!
> 
> i also help to run a (very quiet) cytheri discord server, feel free to ask me about it!


End file.
